


Talk of the Town, You’ve Been Around

by musiclily88



Series: Wasted Youth// There Wasn't Much to Waste [27]
Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Angst, Anxiety, Anxiety Disorder, Background Het, Background Relationships, Bad BDSM Etiquette, Clubbing, Depression, Drinking, Drug Use, Eating Disorders, F/F, F/M, Flirting, Goofy - Freeform, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Past Child Abuse, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Recreational Drug Use, Ridiculous, Subdrop, Suicide, Tattoos, Underage Drinking, not suicide of a main character, please take me seriously on this folks, there's some fluffy shit in here for once, triggering material!, which is weird
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-23
Updated: 2014-04-23
Packaged: 2018-01-20 14:08:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,404
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1513298
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/musiclily88/pseuds/musiclily88
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“But you wanted to? To fix it?”</p><p>“Yeah. I mean, that’s the compulsion, right? To fix things?”</p><p>“Sure, but I mean—the first thing professionals and even amateurs learn is that it’s never gonna happen. You can’t cure anybody through stubbornness. You can’t turn an addict into a choirboy, he’s always gonna jones for a fix. He just has to find something he wants to be or do more than drugs and stuff.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Talk of the Town, You’ve Been Around

**Author's Note:**

> Whatever I'm still mad at Ben Winston for the You and I video, so portrait of the villain as a weird club-owner.
> 
> Warning for the triggers listed above. It's not as emotional as last bit but I'mma warn you this chapter is not pretty.  
> Well. It's pretty in parts, but the other parts are NOT PRETTY.
> 
> HOWEVER. I am still quite proud of this.
> 
> HOWEVER also heed the trigger warnings PLEASE  
> \--  
> Chapter title from Margot and the Nuclear So and Sos' song "Dress Me Like a Clown"

Mineva chuckled as soon as Louis ducked into the office later that week. “Oh, bro, you look like a hoodrat.”

He glanced down at his tank, jeans, and sloppy Vans. His newest tattoo, still scabbing over, peeked out over the top of his clothing. “Sorry.”

“We don’t have a dress code here. Don’t worry.”

“You got tattoos?” he asked quietly, sitting next to her before the computer and telephone. He sort of hoped she did.

“A few.” She shrugged. “Just kiddie stuff, really. Small ones. Stick and poke. That kind of shit.”

“Yeah?”

“We all have to go through phases, all right?”

“And that was the phase you decided to risk hepatitis?”

“I’d say something glib, you know, what is life without a little risk, but actually, it was a really shit idea. Hep free, though. It just got kind of horribly mangled when I put on weight, then when I lost the weight.” She shook her head gently, ruffling her curly fro as she did so. “We all go through things.”

Louis nodded. “In my case, through guardrails.”

“Reckless driver? ‘Kay, you’re not in charge of pub night driving, then. Noted.”

“I’m too much of a lush for designated driving, I’m afraid.”

“Nah, fair enough. We usually take the tube anyway.”

Louis flicked his fringe out of his face. “Yeah? That sounds fun. Going out with you lot.”

“Yeah, we grab a pint or two each weekend, usually. Complain about life’s little misfortunes and dare each other to sing off-key karaoke.”

“Yeah, wicked.”

“Bring your boyfriend or, like, whoever.”

“Haven’t got a boyfriend.”

“Oh! Intrigue.”

Louis snorted. “Not really looking for a boyfriend at the moment, though. Got some shit to sort through, I guess?”

Mineva nodded gravely. “Got it. Just sex, no strings. Wait, is that a gay stereotype? Like, a mean one?”

“Um. It’s a stereotype, but not wholly inaccurate, depending on who you talk to.”

“I should be better at this. I got so sick of everyone stereotyping me as their sassy black fairy godmother that it just got ingrained in me to beat them to the punch. Sorry.”

“No, that’s—that’s fine.”

“I’m making you uncomfortable, aren’t I?”

“Just a bit.” Louis shrugged. “I’m not unused to it, though. Lately my friends and I have just been, like, getting into pissing contests about who can make the other more annoyed, so.”

She tipped her head to one side. “Sounds like you spend a lot of time on-edge.” Her eyes were soft, looking at him with genuine concern. The corners of her generous lips curled up gently as a small wrinkle formed between her brows.

Louis saw in an instant just how great a volunteer she was for crisis work. He cleared his throat. “I did say I have a diagnosis,” he hedged.

“Yeah. I wonder if we’re like a self-selecting population, you know? Like we do this because we know how much it sucks not to have someone doing this. Or didn’t when we needed it. Dunno.”

“Is…is that you wanting to know why I’m here, then?”

“No, but until the phone rings, consider this sharing time.” She scooted her chair closer to him, partially boxing them both into the small cubicle. “I’ll get into the sordid details of my life if you will. Share and share alike. More fodder to when we inevitably play strip I Have Never, yeah? You a grower or a shower?”

“I swear if you ever tell anyone about the exquisiteness of my dick I will destroy you,” Louis vowed, mouth quirking into a smirk.

“Big talk.”

“Yeah, but. Um. I get panic attacks and shit. Depression. Whatever. It’s not a big deal, I’m in therapy, life goes on.”

“Uh huh, Mr. Blasé, pretend you’re not in therapy for a sex addiction, eh? Trying to play that off? I see through you, Mr. Man.”

“Whatever. What’s your story then, hm? In favour of honesty and shit.”

“It’s tawdry.”

“Try me.”

“Started with the fool’s dream of wanting to be a ballerina, obviously, because that makes sense, with these tits and the baby-birthing hips that are my genetic lottery. Then came the excessive dance classes, the super-fun bulimia, and the stupidly expensive amphetamine binges. And that’s my tragic little story.”

“Shit.”

“That was before the stick-and-poke addiction and the pregnancy scare.”

“I know how that goes. Well not directly, obviously. Given the dangly bits, which you’re still not allowed to mention to anyone. Mine’s more—my shit is like. What. I get panic attacks and think I’m gonna die, and then I get so depressed I wish I would die. Endless loop.”

“Sorry. That’s really rough.”

“Yeah, thanks. My ex, like, his dad is really abusive or whatever, and he wound up in hospital a few times, and someone from one of the advocacy agencies came to talk to him, and it just sounded, you know, like, _good,_ like a good cause. Getting people out of shitty situations, giving them a chance to be okay. That sounds all do-gooder white-knight of me, which is bullshit, but it’s just, no one should be in that situation.”

She nodded slowly, pursing her lips.

“And I couldn’t force him to go to the police or to seek some kind of legal action, but like,” Louis added, trying to figure out how to word his next statement.

“But you wanted to? To fix it?”

“Yeah. I mean, that’s the compulsion, right? To fix things?”

“Sure, but I mean—the first thing professionals and even amateurs learn is that it’s never gonna happen. You can’t cure anybody through stubbornness. You can’t turn an addict into a choirboy, he’s always gonna jones for a fix. He just has to find something he wants to be or do more than drugs and stuff.”

“Yeah, I know. I mean—you can’t just turn off a mental disorder, I know.”

“And you can’t force an abuse survivor to turn on someone they’re probably really ambivalent about. You said it was his dad, right? That sucks even more. There were probably times he was really nice, really apologetic and contrite, you know? And maybe your ex had some shreds of hope that things really could get better, because he had some good memories tangled up with the bad. Which makes it all the more confusing, especially for an outsider, who’s probably thinking _just fucking leave, get out._ I mean obviously. But abuse victims are actually, honestly, at great risk for violence and retaliation if they try to leave their abusers—I don’t know the stats, but they’re staggering.”

“Yeah, I—I get it.”

“Plus, they often start to believe they deserve the abuse, that they really did do something to earn it. They try to pick up patterns and watch their steps and it just becomes—rote. Until it’s too hard to leave.”

“Yeah, no, I get it, I promise,” Louis insisted quietly, eyes downcast.

“Sorry, not to harangue you, but we do get a lot of calls about this kind of stuff.”

“Nah I get it. Facing up to the intensely shitty stuff people do to one another is refreshing.”

“Aww c’mon,” she replied, cuffing him gently on the shoulder. “That’s what alcohol is for, to let us forget!”

***  
Louis received a text message from Zayn as he left his volunteer shift, whilst walking to his car.

_what’s going on with harry mate??_

Louis groaned. _leave him alone please honestly_ he typed out in response.

 _jesus Christ what do you think of me?_ came the immediate response, followed by a quick, _no seriously. whats happened with him_

_it’s complicated, I’m not gonna betray his trust about it aright its complicated_

_I tried to get him to explain & he doesn’t want to worry me he said _

_he said that? when?_

_what does it matter, he’s my friend, too, ya know_

Louis snorted. _but youre so much better at playing the villain_

_only because you want me to, not because I actually am_

_whatever you tell yourself, mate_

_you not gonna tell me what’s wrong then?_

_do you know someone named ben?_

_might do. Does it involve him?_

_intimately_

_fuck._

_pretty much_ Louis agreed

_he still round yours?_

_last I checked he was cuddled on the couch with all my sisters yeah_

_mheading there now_

_don’t bother_ Louis insisted, shutting himself into the driver side of his car and shoving his key in the ignition.

_you know, you might be the villain in someone else’s story too mate_

***  
When Louis got home, he spotted Zayn’s car in the circular drive out front. Rolling his eyes, he shoved his way into the foyer and shucked off his shoes, calling out for Harry.

“Kitchen!” came Zayn’s yell, echoing throughout the ground floor and making Louis wince.

Harry was seated cross-legged on the granite countertop, a huge bowl set inside the bent vees of his legs. He had a large spoon stuck into his mouth and he appeared to be trying not to laugh. Zayn, for his part, was clacking two spoons together on his knees from across the kitchen where he was seated at the table, a similarly huge bowl placed in front of him.

“What in god’s name are you doing?” Louis demanded.

“Starting a polka folk band,” Harry explained, taking the cutlery from his mouth. “Zayn’s got dibs on the spoons. I was thinking I’d play jug. You know, like one of those big cartoon ones? That you blow onto to make rumbly noises?”

Zayn continued to clack his spoons. “Louis can play the tambourine, since he’s absolutely useless.”

“Oi!” Louis squawked, incensed. “This is my house, I’ll have you know.”

“Heyyy,” Harry drawled, pouting out his lower lip. “Play nice, please. Also he needs to play the washboard, we already decided that.”

“How you feeling, love?” Louis murmured, approaching Harry slowly, as though he might startle.

“Sugared up.” He hefted his empty bowl. “Ice cream sundae covered in Pop Rocks and jelly beans. And coconut shavings.”

“Bro, you gave him all that, are you shitting me?” Louis asked, rounding on Zayn.

Zayn widened his eyes as Harry crowed loudly from the countertop. “He’s an adult, Lou.”

“No, he’s not,” Louis insisted, swiping one finger against the inside of the sticky bowl.

“He’s eighteen,” Zayn said next, clacking the spoons again.

“No I’m not,” Harry countered, trying to hang the spit-soaked spoon from his nose. “I’m barely seventeen.”

“Shit. Well, it was either ice cream or vodka, and vodka didn’t seem to be the wisest move.”

“I’ve been reliably informed I’m regressing,” Harry added. Finally managing to balance his spoon on the end of his nose, he gave Louis a giddy but tight-lipped smile.

“Oh yeah? The Ph.D. candidate over there tell you that?” Louis poked a thumb over his shoulder, turning around to open the freezer to retrieve ice cream for himself.

“Hmph.” Harry pouted again. “You guys are so nice to me, you know, but not to each other, and it’s just. Can’t we just all get along?”

“Oh Harry,” Louis sighed, yanking the ice cream container from the freezer. “You’re such a hippie.”

“Free love isn’t such a bad thing,” Harry insisted, sticking the spoon back in his mouth.

“Isn’t it?” Zayn asked pointedly. “Sometimes?”

“If more people believed in it, maybe your ex-girlfriend would still be your girlfriend,” Harry pointed out with one raised brow. “So let’s continue under the notion that it’s a good thing? Maybe?”

 

“Wait,” Louis demanded, “have you two boned?”

“No,” both Harry and Zayn replied simultaneously.

“He won’t have me,” Harry added with a quizzical glance. “Despite the, you know, ménage.” He gestured between himself, Zayn, and Louis. “A trois.”

“Let’s keep it that way for all our sakes,” Louis muttered, rolling his eyes.

“It’s strange, really,” Harry drawled. “I don’t know what I am if I’m not that. To someone.”

“Haz, we’ve had that conversation repeatedly. I don’t know how many more ways it’s possible for me to reiterate that you’re more than just a fucktoy.” Louis peeled the top of the ice cream container open and stole Harry’s spoon in order to eat it.

“Christ, here we go, Louis on his soapbox.” Zayn sighed loudly.

“Excuse you,” Louis said pointedly. “Your soapbox is so overused you had to cobble together a new one, all right? Us mere mortals can barely see you down here when you get on your fucking soapbox.”

“A pedestal and a soapbox are different things, you know.”

“What?”

“You have this image of people that’s so—blatantly wrong. Like you’re so far removed from them. Like everyone’s not suffering from the exact same things, that your situation is so discrete and specific as to be unmanageable.” Zayn shook his head. “You’re a fucking hypocrite.”

“And you’re not?” Louis rounded on him accusatorily.

“I don’t like this right now, guys,” Harry called out in a weak voice, face sticky with melted ice cream and, alarmingly, tears. “Please go back to being nice to me. Thanks.”

Louis set down the ice cream and spoon, slotting himself in front of Harry and cuddling him up carefully. “You’re all right, babe, you’re fine.” He ran his fingers carefully through Harry’s hair, tousling it even more than usual. “You’re fine, princess, you’re fine.”

“See?” Zayn stage-whispered. “Not that fucking hard, is it?”

“Be quiet or you’ll get a slap for your troubles, okay?”

“It’s nice to be nice.”

“You’re one to talk, all right? Now hush.”

Zayn shrugged and leaned forward to grab the open container of ice cream. “Haz, you think maybe you should see someone? Like a doctor?”

“I dunno,” Harry muttered with a shrug. “What would I tackle first, you reckon?”

Louis backed up slightly to get a flannel to clean Harry’s face. “Well hopefully your doc wouldn’t let you bang him so you could work out some of the erotic transference.” Zayn snorted as Louis turned on the faucet. “Shut it, you’re not the only one who can read psychological theory and apply it to, like, everyday situations.”

“Everyday situations? Really? That’s you’re going to call this?” Zayn’s voice edged toward incredulous.

“I don’t think there’s a precise term for what this is,” Louis mused, handing Harry the damp flannel.

“Yes there is. It’s called subdropping,” Harry ventured as he cleaned off his face.

“Speaking of which, where the fuck is Ben, hm?” Zayn asked, voice gentle in contrast with the harsh words.

“He didn’t do anything on purpose.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

“He’s nice.”

“Also not what I asked.”

“His wife came home.”

“Fuck. Of course. And he what, unceremoniously kicked you out?”

“I was fine until I wasn’t fine. That’s all. I don’t really think I can handle any more lectures right now, much as I appreciate the love and support,” Harry said with a sniffle. “Will you pass me the ice cream please?”

“This should not be the end of this conversation,” Zayn replied, squinting up at Harry.

“You’re not my dad,” Harry said, eyes wide as Louis snapped in unison. 

“Christ, Daddy, calm down there. Territorial bullshit up in here, I swear.”

“Everyone I know has a daddy complex and it is getting mighty old.” Zayn slouched down into his chair, frowning.

“I do not have a daddy complex!” Harry squawked, ice cream melting on his spoon. “I just like fucking, you know, mature guys.”

“You like fucking _every_ guy.” Zayn snorted and rolled his eyes anew.

“There’s nothing wrong with a healthy libido.”

“I think what this arsehole is trying to say is don’t fuck married guys old enough to be, like, your dad. Especially when they seem to be really bad doms who put you under without knowing what they’re actually doing.” Louis sighed and poured himself a large glass of red wine.

“It wasn’t like that,” Harry said quietly.

“You do know the Blackleaf is a front for running drugs, right?” Zayn snapped harshly.

“Oh god, give me some of that, if you’re just going to keep picking on me.” Harry made grabby-hands for the wine that Louis was still holding by the bottle-neck.

“I’m just saying, he’s bad news.” Zayn muttered.

“Don’t think he’s the only one with the daddy complex, Z, only I reckon you’re on the other end of it, eh? Like bossing people around, do you?” Louis sneered, handing Harry the wine.

“Of course I like bossing people around, you lot are idiots,” Zayn pointed out as the doorbell rang. “You need handlers.”

“What fresh hell, ugh,” Louis groaned, leaving the room to enter the foyer. As he swung the door open with his free hand, his breath caught in his throat. “This is just farcical,” he added into the open air, moving aside to let Liam into the house. “Come join the party.”

“Goddamn it, Haz, don’t put vodka in your wine, you’re a lightweight as it is.”

“I wanna get white-girl wasted!” Harry insisted, clutching the wine bottle and an abruptly procured vodka bottle to his chest, trying not to all in the kitchen sink.

“Case in point, you lot are idiots. Either give me the wine or give me the vodka, you can’t have both.” Zayn inserted himself in the vee of Harry’s dangling legs.

“This isn’t your house, you know,” Harry reasoned, tipping the wine bottle back to take a sip.

“Make yourself at home, H, but I’m not cleaning vom chunks out of your hair,” Louis said with a shrug.

“That’s okay, Zayn will do it,” Harry said with a casual shrug.

“No I won’t.”

Harry shot him a beatific smile. “You will.”

“Dude, your charms don’t work on me, lest you forget. And I don’t want to sleep with you,” Zayn countered.

“You do.”

“This is counterproductive. I’m finishing the ice cream if you insist like acting like a twat,” Zayn replied imperiously.

“This is very…domestic,” Liam murmured, dark eyes blown wide as he surveyed the scene.

“Yeah, they’re having a bit of a tiff at the moment, it’s very nauseating.” Louis gulped down half the contents of his wine glass.

“You love it!” Harry insisted in singsong, finally setting down the vodka bottle in favour of mainlining dry red wine. “Hey,” he drawled next, looking at Liam with renewed interest. “Did you know that you’re very pretty, Liam?”

“Oh my god, you already are white-girl wasted, the fuck am I doing in this mess.” Zayn hefted the vodka bottle and removed it from Harry’s vicinity, getting out a glass to mix himself a drink.

“You literally invited yourself over while I was out volunteering, if you’ll recall,” Louis said snidely. “You’re more than welcome to fuck off, but as it appears you’re making yourself at home in my kitchen, well.”

“I need to make sure Harry doesn’t swallow a bunch of pills out of desperation. Lord knows you won’t help much, little manic depressive over there.” Zayn sat back down at the table with a freshly-poured screwdriver.

“Harry doesn’t have the constitution for suicide,” Louis snapped, turning to Liam. “Want a drink? I don’t recommend wine-ka, but we’ve got some, I dunno. Other stuff. Help yourself. Also, do you not use a telephone anymore? What if I had been indisposed?”

“I did ring you, you didn’t answer.”

“Huh.” Louis yanked his mobile from the pocket of his jeans. “Oh. Battery died. Sorry.”

“Also, indisposed doing what, exactly? Everyone you know is here,” Zayn added, gesturing around the room.

“That’s not true. I have…colleagues.”

“You have acquaintances you periodically go balls-deep into, more like,” Zayn said, giving Liam a small wave.

“You guys are really ruining my buzz right now, can we just lay off please?” Harry pleaded, eyes wide and damp-looking.

“I’m going out back for a smoke,” Zayn said, stumbling to his feet and out the back door.

“To what do I owe the pleasure, Leem?” Louis asked, taking the wine bottle back from Harry to pour himself some more.

“Is it so weird that I wanted to stop by?” Liam’s brows folded together above his blunt nose.

“I am shocked. I am positively clutching my pearls, like one of them, whatsit, debutantes.”

“You’re still very strange,” Liam muttered, “so that hasn’t changed.”

“What has changed, then, friend? Since I saw you last,” Louis replied, attempting an air of lightness and ease. Harry shot him a confused look before hopping off the counter without a preamble in order to leave the room, following Zayn out the back door.

“I’m up for a scholarship at the University of Manchester,” Liam muttered, scrubbing both his hands through his short hair, causing it to bristle.

“Holy shit that’s amazing!” Louis launched himself at Liam, pulling him into an awkwardly intimate embrace.

“Yeah, thanks,” Liam replied, planting a kiss on Louis’ temple as he shuffled his feet awkwardly. “Nothing’s final yet, and I need to practically ace exams, but yeah. It’s—yeah.”

Louis grasped blindly for the collar of Liam’s shirt, a ratty cotton thing, more of a rag than anything, and pulled him into a harsh, ragged kiss. Shocked by his own impulsivity and Liam’s lack of response, Louis backed off quickly. “Sorry, Christ, sorry,” he mumbled, swiping the back of his hand against his lips. “I’m so sorry.”

Liam shoved forward into him, large hands clutching desperately at Louis’ neck and jaw, ramming their lips together hard enough to make Louis see stars behind his eyelids.

“Don’t be,” Liam panted, separating from him slowly.

Louis gaped, trying to suck in a breath. “Look at you, kid. You’ve got a fucking chance, you know that? This is just—yeah. You know.”

“I do know.”

***

They decided to celebrate, the lot of them, inviting more or less everyone they could think of sans the arseholes and anyone too young to get into clubs. The group was therefore small. Harry had somehow magicked a fake ID with a frankly terrible photo on, which Zayn mocked him for endlessly. They devolved into making smouldering gazes at one another as they queued up for drinks at the bar, pretending to be professional models.

“I’m impartial, I’ll be the judge of this shiteshow,” Niall proclaimed, clapping them both on the back.

“How are you impartial?” Harry asked, not unfairly, pouting out his bottom lip attractively.

“I have not shagged a single one of you. That makes me impartial,” Niall insisted.

“Unresolved sexual tension is different than remaining impartial,” Louis mused.

Niall cackled, throwing his head back. “You wish, Tommo.”

“Nah, my life is complicated enough, I’m afraid.” He flagged down the bartender and opened up a tab before ordering himself a vodka-diet, wondering when his evening had turned vaguely appealing, if still ridiculous as it was ever bound to be.

Liam hovered a bit close to his back, and Louis had no idea what to make of it. Instead of attempting to tease it apart, he ordered Liam a beer and passed it over. He then watched Harry and Zayn squabble over who had a better _smize._

“Too gay for my blood. Get me hammered.” Niall ordered a series of shots and handed them out, ignoring the heated modelling competition occurring to his left.

After they each had a drink or two under their belts, Louis led them to the crowded dancefloor, launching himself at the over-large speakers through the hazy lights. Within moments, a light sheen of sweat covered his face and he chuckled loudly as he spotted Niall plastered full-frontal to a leggy girl in a sparkly dress, sucking face like the world was coming to an end.

“That his girlfriend then?” he yelled to Liam, gesturing with his chin.

“Spose so!” Liam necked a large portion of his beer, eyes bright.

Louis let the warmth of the club settle into his body, a mellow languidness filling in between the spaces of his bones. He watched Zayn point and laugh at Harry’s frankly terrible dancing, although he himself was hardly winning any awards. Louis rolled his eyes and promised himself he wouldn’t kiss them, or anyone for at least the rest of the week. Rather he let Liam clutch and grind against him, placing a petite hand on the small of Liam’s muscular back. Rather, he let Zayn pull him to the bar for another few rounds of drinks, just like he let Harry pet his hair and tell him he was beautiful. 

More than anything he tried to work out the tension in his shoulder muscles and along his spine. He worked his heartbeat up to a dull roar and willed the music to pound through his ears until his hearing buzzed. Mostly, it worked, and he didn’t even need a bump of coke to accomplish it.

***

They stumbled to the taxi stand after last call, morning light not yet filtering through the skyscrapers around them. Niall peeled away from the group first, simultaneously supporting his girlfriend while she supported him.

Louis was still comfortably loose-limbed, but not as drunk as Zayn, who demanded they trample to the nearby all-hours kebab shop before queuing back up for a ride. He pushed pointlessly at Louis’ shoulders as Harry laughed and attempted to perform a very complicated jig. Liam caught part of it on his mobile phone before laughing so hard he dropped it twice.

Louis waited outside the kebab shop to smoke while the other three ordered. They insisted they needed greasy food to soak up the remaining alcohol in their guts, leaving Louis to thumb pointlessly through his phone as he sucked hard on the filter of his cigarette. He sighed at the drunken commotion coming from nearby groups of partiers, some of whom leaned in doorways or gutters to puke, kiss, or remove their treacherous high-heels.

Abandoning his mobile as a lost cause, he folded his arms across his chest to ward off some of the cold in the air. He peered at the buildings around him, only vaguely aware of the actual name of the street they were on, or the kebab shop, or anything besides the gentle fizzing in his veins.

“Hey!” someone barked from yards away, startling Louis. “Call 999 or something, I think someone’s trying to ju—”

Only, only, Louis didn’t have time to hear what someone was trying to do, interrupted as the speech was by a body plummeting from the roof of a building across the street, landing on the pavement with a dull, cracking thud.

**Author's Note:**

> One step forward and a thousand panicked steps backward.
> 
> THOUGHTS? Please yell at me and tell me I'm a horrible person. Or, you know, whatever it is that people normally do (seriously you guys are the sweetest fans and readers I've ever had).
> 
> Also this fucked me up a whole lot and I think I need to talk about it during my next therapy session
> 
> tumblr: musiclily


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